


Sleeping Beauty

by haemodye



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sleeping Beauty (2011)
Genre: Angst, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Crossover, F/M, Gen, Kink Meme, Other, Reichenbach Falls, Reichenbach Feels, molly hooper is a saint, not that much angst though I swear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-04
Updated: 2013-01-04
Packaged: 2017-11-23 13:48:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haemodye/pseuds/haemodye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>One pale wrist dangles over the side of the mattress, his brow still crusted with the remnants of fake blood, his eyes flickering behind their lids. [...] She is taken back to nights spent dreaming with faceless strangers, the tip of a cup, sedatives; the fitful sleep of delirium. </i>
</p><p>Wherein Molly is reminded of how she paid her way through med school, Sherlock sleeps oblivious, and Toby is King of the Bed. (You don't need to have watched Sleeping Beauty to understand the fic.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleeping Beauty

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on the sherlockbbc kinkmeme, inpsired by the 2011 Australian film. I guess you could call it a crossover if you wanted to. To be honest this was a bit of stress relief for me mostly, something to calm me down at four in the morning, but I enjoyed writing this fic greatly. I hope it was what the OP wanted. 
> 
> Can be read as gen or one-sided Molly/Sherlock.

 

 

When she gets home the flat is dark and silent, not unusual except for the fact that she knows Sherlock is inside. She could laugh to think that a few hours ago she’d been afraid that her acting wouldn’t be good enough, that she wouldn’t be able to fool the hospital or the police, that she would give Sherlock away with her ineptitude. One look at John Watson’s face and it had been easy to crumple into tears; the man had looked so utterly broken.  
  
She wants to ask Sherlock if it was worth it, but she won’t do that. She isn’t half cruel enough.  
  
Toby doesn’t come to greet her as she toes off her shoes, which is unusual to say the least. Sherlock’s fine black Oxfords are tossed over the neat line of shoes by her door, and she bends down to straighten them carefully. Yves Saint Laurent; no possible way he bought them on his own. Molly smiles, small and melancholy; all those people he helped, all owing him favours. She wonders what they’ll think of him, of the news and the lies. When she closes her eyes, all she can see is John’s face.  
  
Sherlock is not in the living room, nor is he in the kitchen, and Molly frowns when she checks the bathroom and finds it empty. She knows as well as anyone how likely it is that Sherlock has fallen asleep in the bath. Once a big case is over and the adrenalin rush drops, he becomes liquid, unstable, almost… fragile. Part of her misses the days when he would wander into Bart’s late at night, dark circles under his eyes, begging for something more than the tedium. She wonders what he’ll do without John, now that he’s had him. Now that he knows what it is to need someone else.  
  
She wanders into the bedroom and finds her suspicions confirmed, but the sight of him makes her breath catch. Toby's here, too, nestled against Sherlock's long limbs sprawled out over the entirety of the bed; he hasn’t even managed to take off his suit. One pale wrist dangles over the side of the mattress, his brow still crusted with the remnants of fake blood, his eyes flickering behind their lids. He looks, for a moment, truly lifeless, and the image drags on a sheltered memory, something hollow and frighteningly cold. She is taken back to nights spent dreaming with faceless strangers, the tip of a cup, sedatives, the sleep of delirium.  
  
Molly inhales sharply and shakes her head.  
  
She tiptoes towards the bed, pulling her pyjamas out from under Sherlock’s outstretched arm before making her way to the bathroom. Once there she’s forced to sit down hard on the porcelain tile, the tub digging into her scapulae as she breathes deep, in, out. She doesn’t know if she can do this, if she can lie, if she can be what he needs her to be. But she’s done stranger things, too, things she’s less proud of.  
  
Molly’s family had been thoroughly lower middle class, with barely enough money to spare to cover her first year of uni. They’d been willing to start her off, but she wasn’t exceptional enough to win any scholarships, and the debt kept piling up. Medical school would have been too much for her to pay on her own. Then an acquaintance had slipped her a number at a party, casting her a furtive, speculative glance. That should have been her first clue, but she needed the money, so she’d agreed to meet up to discuss a job offer.  
  
Her first reaction to the idea had been horror.  
  
“You want me to do what?”  
  
The woman had stared at her, one perfectly manicured eyebrow raising high at her undignified squeak. The woman looked like she’d walked out of a catalogue and Molly just wanted to seep into the floorboards. She was regretting the decision immediately.  
  
“You wouldn’t be awake for any of it, wouldn’t even have to see your clients. You take a pill and fall asleep, they’re gone when you wake. It’s nothing crude or dramatic. Just sleep.”  
  
Molly spluttered, a flush working its way across her cheekbones. “But… but I’ll be in bed with a stranger. In lingerie!”  
  
“You’ll both be unconscious. You will be monitored. It’s entirely safe. There’s no intercourse, not even any risk. It’s just a few innocent touches before the client drifts off, which is, I assure you, very quick.” The woman smiled thinly. “You’ll be paid very handsomely to lie unconscious for a few hours. It’s off the books, untaxed, no hard physical labour, no interaction with irritating co-workers, and I repeat, absolutely no risk to you. It’s the best job offer a debt-ridden university student could ever want.”  
  
Molly could only stare as the woman stood, placing a thick manila envelope on the table.  
  
“It is, for all intents and purposes, legal. Look over the documentation, and if you’re interested simply get undressed and ring the bell. You may leave your undergarments.” The woman smiled apologetically. “I have to inspect the merchandise before we offer it to customers, of course.”  
  
The woman left, shutting the door behind her. And after what felt like an eternity, Molly had picked up the file. Slowly, she stripped off her clothes.  
  
Molly lifts her head from her knees and breathes deep for a moment. Then she strips and pulls on her pyjamas; a worn t-shirt, flannel pants, no less a costume than lace and garters. She tosses her clothes into the hamper and brushes her teeth, wipes the makeup from her face and pulls her hair back. She washes her face and stares at herself for a moment before padding back into the bedroom.  
  
Sherlock has shifted somewhat, almost in anticipation of her return. He’s now taking up two thirds of the bed instead of all of it, and Molly doesn’t even consider waking him. They’ve both had such long, difficult days, and she knows that once Sherlock is up he will not sleep again until he absolutely has to. Once he is up he will make his last minute preparations, and then he will be off to dismantle whatever Jim has left, until everyone he cares about is safe again. For all she knows, if she believes the things that Sherlock has told her, he may be working to dismantle his web for months. And he will do it, she knows, if he has to; chase every lead to the ends of the earth, across all sea and sundry. Caring, she thinks, has made him more dangerous than ever. She wonders if Jim had misunderstood that.  
  
When she realises that she has been staring for too long she peels back the covers and nestles underneath. Sherlock is on his side on top of the duvet, his face angled towards her in the darkness. His brows are furrowed, face indescribably sad. She restrains the urge to touch him.  
  
She wonders if John has ever felt like this, having someone so strange and wondrous in your grasp, yet never quite close enough to touch or truly know. She wonders if this is what it was like for her clients, coming into an empty room with a beautiful creature lying there; the object of all your affections, and you have but instants to enjoy it. The price you’ve paid suddenly seems far too high.  
  
In the morning, she will wake up and he will already be gone. This is a fact, like breathing, like sedatives in tea; like the phantom heat of sheets in an empty bed.


End file.
